Forgotten
by mornir-brightflame
Summary: OneShot Once a year, every year, he returns to Canary Wharf to remember. But in the end, she was just one small, insignificant name to be forgotten. Post-Doomsday. TenRose.


**Title: **Forgotten  
**Summary: **Once a year, every year, he returns to Canary Wharf to remember. But in the end, she was just one small, insignificant name to be forgotten. Post-Doomsday. TenRose.  
**A/N: **This was one of _those _ideas – the ones that come to you when you're meant to be sleeping. I typed it all up pretty fast, which is probably why it's a bit jumpy. And I just drank three mugs of tea. I didn't know I liked tea. First Doctor Who story, by the way. Review, if you think it's worth it.  
Oh, and I've ignored the whole Season Three and Four thing here. Basically, the Doctor saves the world with Donna at Christmas, and then continues on alone.

--

Every day the sun rose and set over the memorial outside the abandoned Torchwood tower. As time passed, the tower was bought, renovated, and was once again thriving with human life.

Still, the memorial pillar remained, unchanged in the changing world around it, its seemingly endless list of names, engraved on the bronze plaque, oblivious to the years passed. The way the Time Lord intended it to stay.

For him, the list might as well have comprised of only one name – however, he debated, if only one name was denoted, the engravings on the plaque couldn't really be considered a list, could it? A list is generally thought to include more than one item, or, in this case, name.

On the other hand, he supposed if only that one name was engraved, it could still be considered a list – a list of letters. Nine letters is enough for a list of letters, wouldn't you think?

But that was beside the point, as the list contained more than just one name, and very much more than nine letters. Despite however much that name meant to him, who had carried it, it was just one of many; one of many names lost that day.

Blood dripped from his tightly clenched right hand, the thorns of the rose he held cutting into scars that never quite had enough time to heal.

Once a year, every year, he would stand without fail before the pillar. The colours of his suit, tie and shoes changed occasionally over the years, but his face was as the pillar – untouched by time; only the weariness embodied in his bottomless brown eyes indicating that many years had passed.

The fist fell open, the rose falling from his weeping palm to the ground, where, in a short time, it would wilt and die. Closing his eyes, his mouth moved in the shape of words that had come too late, words that would remain unheard by the one they were meant for. A solitary tear tracked down his cheek, only to be scrubbed away as he rubbed his clean hand over his face.

He left and returned to the stars, continuing his life much as ever, though there was an unrestrained recklessness and lack of compassion flowing through his deeds, and a significant decreasing in the amount of running. He threw himself into any crisis; revelling in the danger, seemingly unworried of the risk to his body. Physical pain, he could handle.

The Oncoming Storm had been unleashed, and there was no one in this universe that could stop him, however much he needed them to. He was invincible, glorious, terrifying and so horribly alone.

But even the Oncoming Storm has his weakness. Time made a mockery of him, as his moment of weakness, an infirming of his resolve, came at the worst possible time.

He knew he shouldn't have given them a second chance. He'd just finished bandaging his bleeding hand, and hadn't felt up to being ruthless. He just wanted to be alone, with only his telepathic ship for company. No second chances, he'd said, back on the Sycoraxship. If only he'd stuck to his word.

The bullets had torn through his torso, leaving him damaged and bleeding. He'd barely managed to pull himself back to his ship, observing his glowing hands with trepidation. Clutching the railings in the console room of the TARDIS, suddenly, he realised what a regeneration would mean, what it would do to him.

"No," he said calmly. "No!" Less calmly. "_No!"_ His voice was high pitched with panic. "_No! I don't want to forget her! No, no, no, no!"_

It was too late. He closed his eyes as his hands glowed brighter and brighter, barely suppressed sobs wracking his thin frame as he desperately held on to her image and what she meant to him. He didn't want to forget just how _much _she meant to him.

In one blindingly fast, jerky movement, his body was thrust up into a standing position, arms spread wide, head thrown back. Golden light streamed from his hands and face, in a hideous parody of beauty. The Doctor could already feel her image being burnt out of the forefront of his mind, Rose Tyler was dragged forcefully behind a locked door in the back of his mind, becoming one of many; anonymous, and ultimately, forgotten.

--

The sun rose over the Earth city of London on the day that the screams of the Tenth incarnation of the last Time Lord echoed across the universe for the last time, as every cell in his body re-wrote itself with excruciating pain.

As the echoes of Ten's suffering died, Eleven laboriously brought himself to a standing position. Loosening his belt, tie and shirt – he was considerably less slim that his previous form – number Eleven held up his right hand and smiled at the clear, unblemished skin. The scars had not healed, but had been ripped away and forgotten, fading along with the anguish and loss that revolved around the bearer of those insignificant nine letters, a name, on a pillar in Canary Wharf.

Shrugging out of the suit jacket, the Time Lord walked briskly over to the console of the TARDIS and flicked a few switches, pressed a couple of buttons, and then, satisfied he would be safe for a couple of days, staggered in the direction of his room, specifically, his bed.

So, Number One on his to-do list – sleep off the post-regeneration illness, drink tea, and sleep. Number Two – find new clothes. Number Three – pick up a new companion. It was about time he had someone travelling with him. It'd been countless decades since the last one left. He couldn't begin to imagine why he'd waited so long to find a new one.

Climbing into bed, he decided he liked lists. Especially long ones. He'd have to work on making them longer in future. Smugly, he thought he was rather better at composing them than his last regeneration was.

--

The next year, on the day that had destroyed both his (tenth) life and hers, and left broken hearts in its wake, the sun rose. It seemed as if it waited, high in the azure blue, Earth sky. Like time itself stood, waiting for him.

The man in a pinstriped suit with shoes that didn't match failed to appear. The space in front of the memorial pillar was left empty, the crowds of people walking through the square parting around the pillar, as if not willing to touch the pain and death it signified.

The sun left, slipping below the horizon.

As time passed, the memorial pillar faded, every last one of the names wiped smooth by the years, by the wind and rain, and by neglect; each name, each insignificant name, lost to time.


End file.
